Page 13 of Arranged

The photographer had even caught our ‘private’ kiss in the garden under the stars. I stared at that picture the longest.

That kiss had stayed with me. I’d thought about it way more than I wanted to. Just thinking of it made my lips tingle. I’d forgotten it was even a photo op.

What a fool.

Well, it’d worked out. Looking at that passionate embrace, even I felt myself starting to wonder if we felt something for each other. Or at the very least question what I felt for him.

I shook off the foolish thought. That just went to show the power of sexual chemistry and fantastic photography.

“We’re here, Duchess,” Chester called from the front seat of the Benz. He switched between riding shotgun and keeping me company in the backseat, depending on whether or not we expected to be photographed when we exited the vehicle. When we were being photographed, he rode up front because he thought it appeared more professional and intimidating to anyone who might so much as think about messing with me.

He’d very considerately explained all of that to me the very first time we’d met. He tended to do that; to explain all of the reasons for his methods. It was one of his most stellar qualities, and he had quite a few.

The car stopped, and Chester got out. He opened my door for me and handed me out of the car, took my gym bag, then put himself between me and the half dozen photographers that were waiting to pounce.

I wasn’t remotely annoyed with the paparazzi (of course I wasn’t—they’d been called there by someone on my team), but I didn’t answer any of the questions they flung at me on my short walk from the car to the glass doors of my gym.

My personal trainer, Reggie, was there waiting, letting me in before Chester or I could reach for the handle. We greeted each other briefly and got to work.

He set me up on a treadmill facing the front windows. On display. The entire front room had been cleared out just for me. I was getting used to it. Again, I treated it all like a modeling gig. It made my life feel more productive that way, as opposed to feeling like I was constantly being hounded and overexposed.

It was all about attitude, I told myself.

I walked and jogged for forty-five minutes. It was one of the most pleasant parts of my day. Chatting with Chester and even Reggie had a lot to do with that. Endorphins helped, as well.

I could forget for a moment that I’d made some drastic life choices. I could forget that I’d traded my freedom for financial security. I could forget that I hadn’t spoken to my stranger husband in nearly a month.

My wedge tennis shoes were surprisingly functional for a workout. Not comfortable, perish the thought, but not excruciating either.

“Asha told me you were retaining water, but I don’t see it,” Reggie was telling me. “Regardless, I sent some recipes along to your chef that should help. They don’t taste great, but it’s always worth it to stop the bloat, right?”

I tried not to grind my teeth. This was how Asha got her digs in. Of course I wasn’t retaining water, and my diet was already down to eleven hundred calories a day. Now it would also be unsalted and bland for two weeks, at least.

I didn’t correct him, though. And I wouldn’t react to the shitty, flavorless food. Reactions were what Asha wanted, and I’d become very adept at depriving her of the more satisfying ones.

Reggie had clearly gotten the message about me doing dirty dogs in front of the windows loud and clear. After my cardio he made a point of taking me to a different room when I did all of the ground work strength training that might be taken in a suggestive way.

I finished my workout with laps in the gym’s large lap pool. I still couldn’t get used to the fact that they emptied the large room out just for my use, but I did appreciate it. There was something so serene about having that large, echoing room all to myself. It was the most peaceful part of my day. I always drew it out as long as I could.

I showered again, then headed back to the apartment, where I surrendered myself to my beauty team.

I was well turned out in a lightweight Helmut Lang white shirtdress that showed off most of my legs. Some creative cutouts at the arms gave a modern twist to the cold shoulder trend. A tan Burberry belt added structure to the silhouette of the dress, and nude Stuart Weitzman stilettos kept the overall look understated and classic.

I buttoned the shirt down low enough to show a fair amount of cleavage, and left my collar bare of jewelry. In fact the only jewelry I wore were a pair of thin gold hoop earrings, and my wedding ring.

Bernice, my makeup artist, gave me a fresh faced fine tuning.

Gretchen, my hair stylist, smoothed my thick golden hair into loose, tousled waves.

When my luncheon prep was finished, I headed out the door again, Chester in tow, or vice versa.

Lunch was pleasant enough, if a tad boring. My mother-in-law was actually a pleasure to deal with. She was a friendly, somewhat familiar face in a crowd of strangers. I was always relieved when I found out she’d be at an event.

She was a lovely woman, a former model and actress who kept herself in fighting shape to this day. Her thick dark hair was pulled back into a complicated chignon that might have aged another woman, but only brought out her impeccable bone structure and pale gray eyes. God, what a beautiful family.

She wore a fitted cream dress that made it look like we’d coordinated our wardrobes.

For all I knew, we had.